Catwoman: Guardian of Gotham
by Nos4a2no9
Summary: Successful corporate CEO Selina Kyle leads a secret double life as Catwoman, the shadowy guardian of Gotham City.
1. Prologue

**_Summary: _**Successful corporate CEO Selina Kyle leads a secret double life as Catwoman, the shadowy guardian of Gotham City. In the midst of a series of strange robberies and murders, Catwoman must battle not only the Batman, a skilled burglar, but Bruce Wayne, a man with whom she shares a deep, inexplicable connection.

**_Rating:_** M for suggestive themes and violence

**_Disclaimer:_** Not mine. Not even in an alternate universe.

CATWOMAN: GUARDIAN OF GOTHAM

_Prologue_

"She is alone," the man said, pronouncing each word with slow deliberation. "She is alone, and has no hope of heaven." The woman raised her head wearily, long tendrils of dark hair obscuring her bruised and battered face.

"Justice…" she rasped, the words catching in the dryness and pain of her throat. She'd thought her larynx was broken, and the knowledge that she was still breathing, still alive, felt like a burden. She was so tired.

"What was that?" the man asked, standing, coming closer to lean next to her ear. "You'll have to speak up, my dear. I was just finishing with your little friend."

Selina Kyle raised her head, the last of her desperate energy consumed by the simple gesture. "Justice…is my great and only hope."

He was angered by that, angered enough to finally allow some emotion to creep into his cold, dead eyes. He sniffed, stepping out of the bright circle of light that had formed the ring of torture and death. "No hope of heaven, even for an angel of vengeance? My, my. What has the world come to?"

"I don't believe in heaven," she mumbled through thick, swollen lips. Selina tasted blood at the back of her throat, and the hard feel of the floor beneath her broken body kept her focused enough to spit out that admission. "But I do believe in hell. I've seen it. You will too, and sooner than you think."

The man's face was cast in shadows, but even in the dim light she could see his sneering reception to her threat. "We all die, my dear. And few of us see heaven." He knelt at her side and pulled her head up roughly by her hair, bringing his lips in close to her ear. "I don't deny I'm responsible for you, but I do detest a mess. You've been most troublesome…but that's all. No real threat. Enjoy the afterlife. Dream of angels."

He brought her head up further, straining her neck and causing a pain in the back of her already abused skull so sharp that Selina cried out despite herself. She saw the floor rushing back and away, and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to dash her brains out against the cold, hard tile. She was alone.

OOOOOOOOOOOO


	2. Chapter 1

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

_One Year Earlier_

Captain James Gordon turned up the collar on his overcoat against the bitter wind, shivering in the cold night air. He watched the sky anxiously, waiting for a myth to appear. Two other men stood beside him on that rooftop. A detective named Harvey Bullock puffed on a cheap cigar, his rumpled overcoat stained with jelly and icing sugar from a thousand different donuts. Bullock was massive, flabby, and certainly not the poster boy for an ambitious urban police force like the Gotham PD. His presence at this meeting was beyond Gordon, except for his suspicion that Bullock was in bed with the mayor and would report to Kroll in the morning about this midnight rendezvous.

The other man freezing on the Central rooftop was the Commissioner of Police himself, Jeffery Loeb, a wrinkled, corrupt, ugly little man who cared for little besides vintage collectables and the advancement of his own career. Loeb alone among the three was willing to break the uncomfortable silence on the rooftop: he muttered like a madman, offering insults and epithets to the cold night wind. The Commissioner was a wreck, popping mentholyptus cough-drops like they were tabs of Ecstasy.

Gordon turned from his colleagues, disgusted, and looked up at the night sky. The stars and late winter moon hovering above Gotham were, as always, obscured by a constant cloud of industrial pollution, and so the brightest object in the sky was the Symbol. Gordon felt a shiver run along the base of his spine as he looked at it, his eyes wide and excited behind his glasses. On a particularly cloudy night, the light covered an area of sky the size of five city blocks, the strange symbol of an angry cat looming over Gotham like an Egyptian god returned from the afterlife to pass judgment.

Gordon alternately loved and hated the light. It had come to represent law and order, the hope of peace, inheriting that role from the badge Gordon wore on his lapel. He regretted the loss of law in Gotham, but knew justice still existed: the light was proof of that. Criminals were afraid of it, and so were men like Loeb. Even Bullock, impassive in his girth and dishevelment, looked impressed.

"Is she always this late?" Loeb asked impatiently, covering his nervousness with anger. "It's been twenty minutes."

"She'll be here," Gordon promised, taking his hands out of the pockets of his warm overcoat to blow on them and rub life back into his fingers. As feeling began to return to his digits, he felt a tingle of awareness. She was here. Probably had been watching them the whole time, gauging the threat, assessing options and avenues of escape in case this was some kind of trap. Gordon smiled to himself. She would have made one hell of a cop, had things been different. Had Gotham been different.

Loeb turned from the spectacle of the bright Catsignal to look at Gordon. "I'm still not entirely comfortable with this arrangement," the Commissioner said, gesturing to the giant projector occupying a large portion of Gotham Central's rooftop. "It opens the department up to a lot of criticism. Most of the city still thinks she's a some kind of boogeyman."

Gordon bit down an angry, impulsive response, making use of the restraint he had cultivated during his long purgatory in Gotham City. "You've been clear about your objections. And the signal is still the only way we have of contacting her. If we tear it out of here, we have no way of reaching her until there's a body count."

Gordon turned up his collar against the bite of the wind and deliberately faced away from where he guessed she would appear. He wanted to better gauge Bullock and Loeb's reactions. She was a spectacular sight, the first time, and he would have paid good money to see the expression on his own face the first time he'd set eyes on her.

Right on cue, although not exactly where he'd expected, Catwoman stepped from the shadows. The Commissioner visibly jumped when she materialized on Central's roof nearly at his elbow. "You rang?" she asked in a low, throaty purr laced with steel.

Gordon bit back the urge to smile. It was all part of the act. Sometimes, when she was among people she considered allies in the war on crime, she played the sex kitten. And it wasn't hard; Catwoman dressed in tight purple leather, so form-fitting it revealed every curve of her body. Her chest was protected by a black Kevlar corset, and she wore thigh-high stiletto boots to assist her in gravity-defying gymnastic tumbles and leaps. Catwoman carried a whip, her features obscured by a black leather mask that revealed only the white slits of her eyes. Long, dark hair flowed out beneath the mask, catching on the wind as she was perfectly silhouetted against her own signal light.

The bondage-fantasy appeal of her costume, Gordon knew, was designed to confuse and inspire over-confidence in the men she intended to fight. Full-figured and graceful, Catwoman at first glance looked less than intimidating. Sexual appeal and the assumptions of men were her weapons, and Gordon had seen her put people three times her size in the hospital. He watched, amused, as Bullock and Loeb struggled to pull their jaws off the ground.

Gordon cleared his throat, knowing she would be aggravated by this find this delay in her patrol. Loeb sputtered, the candy he'd been sucking forced to the side of his mouth as he talked, making his cheeks bulge out.

"I assume you're aware that my home was invaded earlier tonight. Several precious objects were stolen."

Gordon was watching her face carefully, and he could have sworn he saw her mouth twitch in a strange, fleeting smile. Or perhaps it was annoyance; despite their long acquaintance, Gordon didn't really know enough about her to tell if she was amused or annoyed. Catwoman, at least to him, always looked angry.

"And why should that interest me?"

Loeb blinked once or twice in confusion, swallowing his cough drop. "Why should that interest you?" he repeated, half-choking on the candy. "You operate at the discretion of the Gotham City Police Department. I give the order, I'll have you hauled in on all manner of charges!"

Catwoman was visibly unimpressed by Loeb's threat. To Gordon, it looked like she was trying to suppress a yawn.

Loeb continued, angry spittle flying from his mouth as he pronounced each word. "You claim to fight crime: fine. A crime was committed against me and I want the issue resolved, the perpetrator apprehended and brought to justice. You will do this for me, or I will put an end to your sexy little costume party."

Gordon winced, his sense of amusement fading at Loeb's blundering exercise in intimidation. Catwoman hardly needed the Commissioner's permission or the compliance of the GCPD to continue her nightly activities. She was a vigilante, and so had taken the law into her own hands. She worked with Gordon because she realized the value of a trusted colleague on the force, but even after operating in Gotham for over a year, she had never met Commissioner Loeb face-to-face.

"I don't require your acquiescence," she hissed, then, after a cold silence, continued. "I have more important things to worry about. Your people lost the Joker again last night, and my first priority has to be locating her before there's a body count. Is that all?" Catwoman asked sharply, and after a beat Loeb nodded. Catwoman looked pointedly at Gordon, and then turned her back on the three men, walking to the ledge of the building to stare down into the busy streets of the city.

"I'll see you downstairs," Gordon dismissed the other two men. Bullock nodded, chewing on his cigar thoughtfully as he studied Catwoman's leather-clad posterior, lechery making his eyes look beady and small in the dim light.

Loeb clearly wanted to say more, but as the anger faded from his eyes a strange expression crawled across his wrinkled smear of a face. The Commissioner smiled smugly. "Have fun, Jimmy. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Commissioner Loeb retreated down the stairwell with Bullock.

"He makes me feel like I need to take a bath," Catwoman said from her position near the edge of the roof.

Gordon sighed. "He has that effect on people." They were silent a moment, the soft sounds of traffic below filtering up to their spot on the GCPD's rooftop. "I'm sorry about the interruption; I know you hate to be bothered with politics, and this business with the Commissioner's home…it's all politics."

Catwoman's head snapped around, her dark hair settling around her shoulders like a short, wild cape. "You could have told him no. Or offered to talk to me yourself. I told you before, Loeb has no part in what we do."

"And I agreed with you," Gordon replied, agitated himself. "Loeb's greedy, dangerous. We could never trust him. I just think that, since we lost Harvey -"

Her eyes dropped to the city again, and she shifted her position slightly, turning away. "I'm sorry," Gordon said softly. "I-"

"Forget it," she told him, leaning on one bent knee, her whip held lightly in her palm. "We didn't lose Harvey Dent, Jim. He was stolen from us by the evil that rules this city. We forget that, and everything we're trying to change in Gotham goes right down the toilet." She paused. "I think Harvey would have agreed."

Gordon nodded and said softly, "I think so too." After the respectful silence that ruled all conversations about Harvey Dent, their former partner and the District Attorney of Gotham, Gordon cleared his throat. "I was worried, if you want to know the truth. I haven't seen you since Christmas, and -"

Catwoman turned her face towards him, her face expressionless. "I'm fine. I've just been busy."

"Little James is walking now," Gordon said gruffly, unsure how she'd react to a conversation about his domestic life. Until the thing with Harvey had strained the relationship between them, he had been building a slow, careful friendship with this strange masked woman. Gordon got the feeling that she liked hearing about his family, his life away from Central and the maniacs they dealt with on a regular basis. At least, whenever he'd brought up the subject of his son or his wife, Catwoman hadn't left with her characteristic abruptness.

"I brought a picture," Gordon offered, taking a snapshot out of his wallet. The photo had been taken a few weeks ago at a birthday party thrown for his son, James Jr. Barbara, Gordon's young niece, was holding his chubby son. Both children mugged for the camera, twelve-year-old Barbara endearing in her goofy smile, cake smeared across James Jr.'s chubby face. Catwoman took the photo, her masked face not allowing for any kind of reaction.

"They look happy, Captain," Catwoman whispered, handing the photo back. "Keep them that way."

"I'll do my best," Gordon replied, carefully replacing the picture in his wallet. He offered her a file-folder next, and she glanced up at his face in question. "The Loeb burglary," Gordon explained. "There's an itinerary of the items taken. The Commissioner collected antique toys, novelty items. That sort of junk is worth a lot of money to the right people. We've been checking possible fences, but you might have better luck going straight to the buyers."

Catwoman nodded and secreted the folder away in a hidden pocket on her costume. She arched her back, which had stiffened slightly in the cold wind. "I should get back to work," she told him. There's lot of ground to cover tonight. I will look into the Loeb burglary, Jim, but the Joker has to take priority." She turned to him, the strange, white, soulless eyes of her mask in sharp contrast to the emotion of her voice. "If anyone dies this time…"

"You'll find her," Gordon interrupted, wondering how often people saw this side of Catwoman. She was so many things to the people of this city, both demon and savior, an urban myth and a terrifying reality to those on the wrong side of the law. He wondered how many of them ever thought about the sad, lonely woman beneath the mask. He doubted any of them even believed she was human. It was the way she wanted it.

"Good hunting," he told her, and Catwoman nodded, leaping off the roof of Central onto a fire escape. He watched as she bounded away, flying across rooftops and tenements, a true creature of the night. He smiled to himself, thinking he could rest easy, knowing she was watching their city.

OOOOOOOOOOO


	3. Chapter 2

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Millions of years ago, what is now Gotham County was a vast field of ice. The ice melted and re-froze for millennia, seeping down into the earth's crust and creating massive fissures that, eventually, formed the caverns and cisterns for which Gotham is now famous. The entire city was constructed over a fragile network of hollow stone caves: there are rumors that one powerful earthquake could level the entire metropolis. Selina Kyle, in her preparation to become a masked vigilante, had studied the geological history of the Eastern seaboard, paying particular interest to the network of caves beneath Gotham City. She had always known a home base was necessary to her cause, a starting from point from which she would wage her war on crime. She called this resource the Catacombs.

It was filled with trophies, equipment, vehicles and weapons, each piece either essential to her mission or a reminder as to why it was necessary. From the shadows on the north side of the immense cavern a robotic Saber-tooth tiger stalked in quiet wait. A giant silver dollar sat beside the Cray computer monitor, which hummed in fiber-optic silence. A complete gym and medical facility occupied the lower level of her sanctuary, as well as a well-appointed forensics lab and a garage filled with the vehicles of her trade: a speedboat, a motorcycle, a jet and the Catmobile, all sleek super-powered machines detailed in chrome and dark, vivid purple. In sum, the equipment collected within the depths of the Catacombs represented the most sophisticated methods of crime fighting techniques ever assembled. And all if it had been utterly useless.

Selina sank into the hard-backed chair before the giant Cray monitor, immediately calling up an oft-accessed file. The Joker. The file offered nothing new: pages of crime-scene reports, most of them grisly ritual murders or bizarre acts of violence. A blurry shot of a lithe, green-haired creature in flight down a winding staircase was the only true photographic evidence of what the press had quickly labeled the Clown Princess of Crime. She was a rare creature: a female serial killer. And Selina was determined to track her down.

"How did it go tonight?" a soft, feminine voice asked, echoing in the vast emptiness of the cave.

"It was a waste of time," Selina muttered, punching keys to close the Joker's file. "I would have accomplished more by staying here, but Gordon insisted."

"At least it got you out of the house," Leslie Thompkins pointed out, her plain, almost severe dress blending into the cave's darkness until only her white, shining face and silver hair were visible. She was carrying a tray laden with soup, sandwiches and a vitamin-enriched health shake. The meal, her tone of voice, even the level of lighting in the cave were all carefully preselected, the products of a lifetime spent in study of the healing arts. Years ago, Leslie Thompkins had been one of the most accomplished surgeons in the country and here, in the Catacombs, her skills were put to good use.

"What did Captain Gordon want?" Leslie asked, determined to draw Selina's attention from the monitor as long as possible. Any subject was better than the Joker.

Selina glanced at her friend, sighing in surrender. She stood and began to strip away the layers of Nomex and plastic armor that had been strapped close to her body for over eighteen hours. "There's a new player in town," Selina told Leslie, pulling off Catwoman's mask and massaging her scalp with her fingers. "Some kind of thief. His targets have been incredibly specific. He's hit Commissioner Loeb but left obvious marks like the First Gotham Bank alone."

"And that bothers you?" Leslie asked, accepting each layer of the costume and sorting it into three piles: wash, wear or mend. Most of the Nomex had small rips or even slash marks in it, but the thick Kevlar bodice had protected Selina's chest and back from the worst of the damage. Leslie thought back to the early designs of the Catsuit, bright purple spandex with only the slightest concessions to bullet-proofing, with an air of averted tragedy. They'd come a long way in two years, although Leslie would have happily lived her entire life not knowing the true value of Kevlar.

"It doesn't bother me," Selina replied, slipping into a long, soft bathrobe. "It just makes this new element unpredictable. Eyewitness reports are describing a giant bat. Can you believe that? What is it about this city?" Selina folded herself into the computer chair and began to munch on a tuna sandwich.

Leslie picked up the 'wash' pile, heading back towards the stairs. She turned before she was halfway up. "I've put the dress for tomorrow in your closet." At Selina's blank look, Leslie frowned. "You do remember what tomorrow is, don't you?"

Selina blinked, closed her eyes and shook her head. "I can't, Leslie. I've got a board meeting at 10am and after that I was going to-"

"Selina, you're the maid of honor. And the bride just happens to be one of your very few close friends."

"But Leslie," Selina grinned, rising to her knees and balancing on the chair, "I'm supposed to be wearing pastels. Pink pastels. It's an ethical decision, one any normal person would understand. I can't go."

"You're going," Leslie said firmly, secretly amused by Selina's efforts to charm her way out of her social obligations. Selina frowned, glancing at the open file on the gigantic computer monitor. The Joker beckoned; she could almost hear the clown's insane laughter.

"It's over by nine, right?"

Leslie nodded, satisfied. "I will pick you up at nine o'clock precisely, after which you will be quite free to seek your untimely demise. And now, since you are clearly too exhausted to sleep, I'll leave you to it."

"Leslie?" Selina asked softly, making the older woman pause again in her ascent up the stairs. "Think anyone interesting will be there?"

OOOOOOOOOOO


	4. Chapter 3

OOOOOOOOOOO

He'd been watching her for nearly three hours, ever since she'd bumped him on her way to the bridal table. He'd nearly spilled his drink all over the tux, and the damn thing was a rental. Still, it was worth it. She was lovely, her figure soft and curvaceous, filling out the dress with more force of being and sensuality than any of the other bridesmaids could begin to muster. The pale pink dress accented her porcelain skin, and the white rose pinned into her dark hair was a beacon to his eye, allowing him to trace her movements across the grand ballroom of the downtown Sheraton. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and that was a dangerous thing. Unexpected. And Bruce Wayne hated the unexpected.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Selina watched the city, immune to the party around her. She stood on a terrace outside of the warm, bright ballroom, shivering in the wind, her thin satin bridesmaid dress providing poor protection against the cold night air. The high-energy big band sound, popular two generations ago, plowed through a Glen Miller standard as the social elite of Gotham kept pace with varying degrees of success.

An elegant auburn-haired woman clad in bridal white led her groom through the fast swing number, her laughter reaching Selina on the balcony and making her smile. They'd known each other for years, although Selina couldn't help but feel that her old friend was taking a step well beyond her now, into that mysterious world of husband and children and family that Selina had never wanted, or expected, to be a part of. It wasn't part of the plan. She shivered slightly, scanning the city again and again for the Signal, longing for some news of the Joker.

"It's cold," a man's deep baritone informed her. Selina found herself constructing his face from the sound of his voice. A large man, perhaps 6'4, two-thirty, two-forty-five, muscular, athletic build. Black hair, brown eyes, blandly handsome in the way of all rich Gotham sons. She turned, ready with a brilliantly artificial smile and a pleasant excuse she could use to slip away. And when she faced him, she discovered she had been right, and wrong. His eyes were blue, not brown, and he wasn't bland at all. He was no Adonis, either, but had such strong, interesting features that one would have unhesitatingly called him 'handsome' without considering the watchful expression lurking behind his eyes. He looked as though he rarely smiled, although he was doing so now, amusement making the edges of his full lips curl upwards.

"It's cold," he repeated. "And years from now," he said, stepping closer to speak into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek, "when people talk about the weather, they'll say, 'It's cold, but not as cold as the night Vesper Fairchild got married'."

Selina was considering his face and quickly realized she'd been staring. She didn't recognize this man, who reminded her of a lion among the contented housecats of eligible Gotham bachelors. Something dangerous and primal, who looked as out-of-place as she felt in the grand ballroom beyond the darkness of the balcony.

"Selina Kyle," she told him, liking the way he challenged her with his watchful eyes. As one of the wealthier women in the country, Selina had her fair share of suitors. None of them knew how to look at her properly, but this man did. His covert glances at her body were not appraising but appreciative. When his eyes returned to her face, he grinned, and she felt as though he would have winked as well.

"Bruce," he replied, and she liked the way he said his name. He didn't volunteer a family surname and all that came with it: bloodlines, financial information, expectations. Instead he seemed content to stay on this balcony and watch her with no hint of recognition flaring in his expression. Selina knew he must be aware of who she was: she was a hard subject to avoid in the media. So either he'd been living under a rock, or her identity wasn't important to him. Either way, the wedding reception had just gotten a lot more interesting.

He leaned against the railing that ran the length of the balcony, his long, lean body relaxed, friendly. "How do you know the bride?" he asked, sipping from a half-empty glass of champaign. Selina permitted her eyes one more long, slow sweep of his body before turning to watch the skyline again.

"We were friends in college," she replied. "How do you know her?"

"I don't," he grinned, downing the rest of his drink, Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm crashing. Shall we?" he invited, offering her his arm. Selina glanced up into his face, cautioning herself. This one could be very dangerous.

They hit the parquet dance floor just as Glen Miller gave way to Rogers and Hammerstein; a soft, jazzy rendition of 'Over the Rainbow' made most of the drunk or stoned wedding guests head for the bar. He held her lightly as they danced, leading her with innate skill and grace. She would have thought him to be a professional dancer, but his body was too muscular. And his face was a mystery to her, his eyes dark, almost seductive in their unreadability. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth and she kept trying to identify his frustratingly opaque accent. He might be from the East Coast, but she would have noticed him by now if he came from Gotham. Small talk seemed beyond them as the soft, dreamy music filled the ballroom, and Selina felt as though they were alone amid the crush of people. As the last note faded, they stayed close, bodies still touching. Her face felt flushed and she swallowed hard, her eyes too bright.

"Aren't you worried that you'll be found out?" Bruce asked gently. Selina looked at him in question. "Sentimentality doesn't suit you."

She frowned, pushing him away. His arms fell from her reluctantly. "I should go."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Selina replied. "You just reminded me why I don't dance with strange men." And with that, she turned, heading for the coat check, willing herself not to look back. While she waited for her wrap and scanned the sky yet again for the Signal, Vesper caught up to her, breathless and shining in her happiness.

"You're not leaving?" she questioned. "I haven't even thrown the bouquet, and you're supposed to fight off all the old maids to catch it. I wanted pictures."

"Sorry," Selina told her friend, nodding at the valet as he handed her a mink wrap and clutch. "Gotta run. You look beautiful," she said, kissing Vesper on the cheek. "Congratulations."

Vesper put a hand on Selina's arm. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Sounds serious," Selina smiled. "You do know that what happens later tonight is a beautiful thing, right? I can draw you a diagram if you're curious about how it works."

Vesper grinned, shaking her head. "I think Larry and I have that under control. I just wanted to know why you were dancing with Bruce Wayne."

"Wayne?" Selina muttered, shocked. She scanned the ballroom, looking for the tall, handsome man with the watchful eyes. He had vanished. "He's…"

Vesper nodded, watching her friend carefully. "I thought you knew."

She recovered quickly, trying to appear less shocked than surprised. "Thanks, Vesper," Selina replied, withdrawing. "I'll see you when you get back from Europe. Take care of Larry."

"I will," Vesper promised, watching her friend exit the coat-check room and make her way towards the elevators. She sighed. "Bruce Wayne. Talk about bad timing."

OOOOOOOOOOO


	5. Chapter 4

OOOOOOOOOOO

The night was cold and welcoming, like a bath or a familiar blanket. Selina slipped into the shadows easily, beginning the long patrol west along the park and down into Old Gotham. She liked patrol and the distractions it brought, the need for speed and accuracy, the faith in her abilities it summoned. Whether it was taking down a roving street gang in Robbinsville or crossing the wide gulf of 190th Street West with only a whip and no safety net, the world could fade to the seconds between action and reaction, crime and criminal, problem and resolution. The world seemed very simple during patrol.

It only got complicated for Selina when she hit Old Gotham, that winding warren of alleyways and tenements that was impossible to navigate even for natives. Like nowhere else in Gotham, this district of the city seemed to bend and shift at will. The streets had no names and no accurate map had ever been assembled for the little bourrough. A century ago, immigrants from all corners of the world had settled there, disappearing into their own communities and sliding under the radar of the American authorities. It quickly became a breeding ground for crime, as such unwanted places do. Bad dreams and old memories filled Old Gotham, defying all attempts on the part of law and order to penetrate its skin.

The sound of shattering glass at three o'clock brought her to a building that had no name or address. She could see the river from the rooftop she perched upon; Kane Sound glinted silver in the moonlight, reminding her of the skin of a snake. Then a rush of footsteps, and Selina coiled, ready to spring. She waited until her timing was perfect and then lept upon someone far stronger and faster than she.

Selina found herself thrown off the man's back, her cheek scraping painfully against the black asphalt of the roof. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in a massive shadow, a thing more animal than man. A giant bat, swathed in light-eating black body armor and a cape that shifted in the breeze. She drew in a harsh breath, wondering if there wasn't something familiar about the strong jaw and tense mouth beneath the creature's mask. Despite the annoying feeling that she knew him from somewhere, Selina felt better: there was a man in there somewhere, and a man she could handle. She prepared herself for the fight.

"I think you're a little lost," she told him, her voice a low growl of warning. "Pests aren't welcome in Gotham."

The man seemed to pause, hesitating or perhaps gauging his chances in hand-to-hand combat against Catwoman. He telegraphed a punch but she was faster, ducking it easily. A sweeping kick was also easy to avoid. She clenched her hand, a soft _click_ signaling the slide of razor-sharp claws as they extended from the tips of her gloved fingers. Selina jumped, landing to the left of her opponent and striking out with her claws, sharp metal tips scraping against his chest. The sound of metal-on-metal grated as she made contact with his body armor, her claws penetrating the fabric of his costume but no deeper. She struck again at his kidney, her claws slipping behind the body armor and into the soft flesh beneath. Selina was gratified to hear his sharp intake of breath.

"That wasn't very nice, kitten," he said softly, his voice low and raspy, sending shivers down her spine. He moved again, and she realized he was trying to keep his body between her and something else. She sprang up, her hands resting on muscular shoulders for a moment before she soared up and over to land behind him on the deserted rooftop. Her suspicions were confirmed: a bag of loot, obviously gleaned from one of the mob-controlled pawnshops in the buildings below, gleamed in the moonlight.

"You're not a very good thief, are you?" she asked, whirling to face him. He was already gone, along with a second bag she hadn't even noticed he was carrying.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Bruce let himself into the sleeping apartment silently, despite the injury to his kidney. He'd slipped in through the window he'd left open and had nearly made it to the bathroom when Holly turned on the light.

"You get it?" she asked, excitement driving her voice up a notch. Bruce, sighed, considering whether or not to lecture Holly on the benefits of a good nights' sleep. Instead, unable to dampen her enthusiasm, he nodded and tossed the bag of loot towards her. The teenager scrambled for it, her movements, he noted, a little slower than yesterday. The morphine at work, he supposed.

"Did you eat?"

"Yep," Holly replied, opening the bag and upending it to spill over the blanket covering her thin, white legs. The gold jewelry and cash glinted dully in the light. Bruce began to remove his costume, the air in the tiny East End apartment cool against his skin as he removed the hot black cowl.

He glanced at the dirty dishes she'd left on the coffee table, calculating how much food she hadn't eaten, or pretended to eat and thrown into the kitchen garbage. The pills made her sick and she hated wasting food; he would try to get her something better for the nausea in the morning.

"Any trouble?" she called from the living room. He'd entered the bathroom, the harsh light over the mirror casting the hollows of his face into strange, elongated shadows. Bruce peeled off his body armor, drawing in a sharp, gasping breath as the plating around his kidney came away with a sucking noise, followed by a gush of blood. The kitten certainly had claws.

"None at all," he assured Holly, filling the sink with warm water. He locked the door and found the first aid kit, first pouring alcohol over the wound and then bandaging it to stop the blood. The white gauze looked strange against his skin; he'd rarely been injured on a job before, and certainly never this badly. Self-defense training in a variety of martial arts had formed a part of his education, but the point of cat burglary was stealth: no one should ever know you were there, and therefore, a good thief should never have to fight anyone. The thing with the costumed woman had been embarrassingly amateurish. Her words, spoken in that husky drawl, echoed in his mind: _You're not a very good thief, are you_?

Not tonight, he wasn't.

Bruce showered and pulled on a ragged terrycloth robe, not quite able to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He'd left half the take behind, and there wasn't much of value in the mob-owned shop to begin with. Either someone had known he was coming, or the Falcones weren't doing as well as everyone thought. The thing with the feline-fixated do-gooder hadn't helped, and the last thing he needed was an injury slowing him down.

Holly had already assessed the take and spread out the night's profits on the carpet. She was sitting amidst the loot, her accustomed nightgown rucked up around her knees as she placed each piece in its spot within the display she'd created. He watched her work, impressed with her innate ability to catalogue everything according to its assessed value, utility or appearance. Even for his expertly trained eyes, some of the pieces, especially the jewelry, were hard to assess. Holly had spent enough time in pawnshops and repo warehouses to learn the value of such things.

"You should get some rest," Bruce told her after a minute, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the way her movements were slow, almost painful, in their effort to arrange the items he'd stolen.

"And you should get someone to look at that kidney," she replied. Bruce tramped down a smile. She was damned observant.

"I'm fine. Now," she said, rising and brushing the wrinkles from her nightgown, "what are we gonna get for this stuff?"

He didn't allow his eyes to waver from hers. "Enough."

Holly grinned, something of her old sparkle and vitality returning to her pale blue eyes. "Awesome." She climbed back onto the couch and snuggled under the blankets, the slight exertion making her cough. Bruce handed her a towel and they both waited for her lungs to settle with the habit of long familiarity.

"Sounds better," he said, trying to be upbeat for her sake. The last thing the poor kid needed was discouragement. "I think it's loosened up."

"It was a good day today," Holly told him, and Bruce had the sneaking suspicion she was also lying for his benefit. "I slept mostly, watched some TV."

"Good," he said, settling onto the other end of the couch, pulling her feet onto his knees and rubbing them. Holly leaned back into her pillow, her eyes drifting shut.

"How was the thing? The party?"

Bruce smiled a little, eyes focused on the soft streetlight outside the window. "It was pretty much what I had expected," he told Holly. "A lot of stuffed shirts, expensive dresses and easy marks. Three of them all but gave me copies of their housekeys."

"That's nice," Holly murmured, half asleep. "You'll hit Bristol tomorrow night?"

"That's the plan," Bruce confirmed, allowing a few long seconds to pass before he spoke again. "There was a woman at the reception..."

"Who?"

"A woman," Bruce repeated. "Selina Kyle."

"Oh...her," Holly whispered, not opening her eyes. "What was she like?"

Bruce contemplated his answer. How could he explain how he had felt on that dance floor? Selina had been nothing like he'd expected. She was beautiful, certainly, but one only had read the Gotham tabloids to learn that. He hadn't been prepared for her quiet vulnerability, that strange aura of sentimentality and sensuality she possessed. She was dangerous, too: Bruce knew that a woman didn't become head of a huge international corporation without tenacity, resourcefulness and a certain ability to be absolutely ruthless. Still, the last thing he had been expecting when he'd asked Selina Kyle to dance was to feel so...intrigued. He wondered even now what it meant.

"She's just another mark," Bruce said to the empty room, the only other sound Holly's deep, troubled breathing.

OOOOOOOOOOO


	6. Chapter 5

OOOOOOOOOOO

The board meeting seemed interminable that day, more so than usual. Selina found herself mentally reciting chemical compounds, forensic theorems and case histories to keep herself awake. Occasionally memories from the night before would filter in, the fight with the bat-fixated burglar blending in with details from Vesper's wedding. As her CEO Lucius Fox droned on about forth-quarter earnings and stock prices, Selina tried not to stare at the clock. At 12:30pm, they broke for lunch and Selina paged her secretary.

"Debbie, I need you to track down a number for me," Selina instructed over the office-to-office voicecom. "Bruce Wayne. He's new in town, so try the hotels first. The Hilton, the Ritz-Carlton..."

There was only a moment of hesitation from her secretary's end before Debbie replied, "Mr. Wayne has already contacted you. He called earlier this morning to confirm your lunch date for 1pm."

Selina smiled slightly, more amused than annoyed at the man's audacity. "Did he happen to mention where this lunch date was supposed to take place?"

"Grant Park."

OOOOOOOOOOO

Selina was early, needing a few minutes to collect herself before meeting with Wayne. The park was in the midst of late winter malaise, the brown, dead grass contrasting against the black, leafless trees and few remaining snowdrifts. In the summer, Grant Park was an oasis for Gothamites, a wide, shady green space where children felt safe to play and young couples came to hold hands. Few came in the winter, avoiding the cold wind and dark pathways where muggers lurked. Incidents of violence in the park had decreased sharply since Catwoman had appeared in Gotham, but people had long memories in this city. Too long, she thought sometimes.

Selina sat on a handy bench, the metal and wood initially freezing even through her thick winter coat. She leaned back, watching for Wayne and rehearsing what she had to say. All the old scripts, the carefully practiced speeches and dark confessionals just didn't seem right. She had been waiting to meet Bruce Wayne all of her adult life but the man's strange humor and charm from the night before had caught her off guard. She found the reality of the man she had met at Vesper's wedding difficult to reconcile with the Bruce Wayne of her imagination.

Suddenly he was there, standing before her, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You look like you're waiting for a bus," he told her.

Selina stood, again noting in appreciation his well-formed body and handsome visage. Something she was reluctant to call desire began to coil through her, settling as a dull ache in her belly. She had to make this quick before it became too painful.

"Take a walk with me?" she offered. Bruce nodded, looking as though he wanted to say something clever but couldn't. Her serious expression wouldn't allow it.

"I've been looking for you for a long time, Mr. Wayne," she began, falling into pace beside him. "You must have known."

"I'm a big story in this city," he shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Lots of people in Gotham are looking for me. I apologize for not introducing myself properly last night. I knew you wanted to meet me. It was rude."

The apology surprised her, as did his expression of gravity. The playful man of last night seemed to have vanished, replaced by this more serious stranger. Suddenly he smiled, catching her hand and tugging her towards him. Selina resisted at first, then relaxed enough to fit loosely against his body. Her eyes widened when he kissed her and she surprised herself by allowing the contact to continue well beyond the point where she usually pulled away from a man's touch. His kiss was soft, inviting, unhurried. He smelled of aftershave and soap, a pleasant, warm scent that was oddly comforting. Selina pulled back a little, breaking the kiss, more reluctantly than she was willing to admit to herself.

"What was that for?" she whispered, still too close to him. Bruce brushed his knuckles against her cheek, his touch making her shiver.

"You looked like you needed it," he told her.

Selina stepped back, breathing deeply. She couldn't even force herself to be angry with him. "I didn't come here for that," she explained. "I wanted to talk to you about your parents."

For a moment a shadow passed across his face and then it was gone, so quickly Selina could not even be sure had ever been there.

"Why?" he asked simply. They resumed walking, the feelings he had aroused in her fading as Selina reminded herself who and what Bruce Wayne was.

"You must know what your parents have meant to this city and...and to me," she began again, hoping she could make it through without allowing him to distract her. Something wasn't right: she had never expected the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne to be so evasive about his family legacy.

"It's a hard thing to ignore," he admitted. "Nearly every building in Gotham bears the Wayne name. Hospitals, schools, museums...you can't escape it," Bruce paused and she wondered what he was thinking. "I did want to thank you for keeping the Wayne Foundation going. It's done a lot of good."

"Thank you," she told him, still perplexed. He almost sounded reluctant to admit the success of the Foundation. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked him. Bruce turned to face her, returning to something of his former charming self. The darkness she had sensed gathering in him faded and he shook his head.

"Of course not. You've put a lot of your company's financial resources into restoring my family's name and position in Gotham. I'm grateful, Ms. Kyle," he told her. Selina didn't quite believe him: she was too skilled at reading people to do so. Bruce Wayne was turning out to be a greater puzzle than she had ever anticipated.

"Thank you," she said, uncertainty hovering at the edge of her tone. She knew he heard it, but neither of them acknowledged her disbelief. "Now, would you mind telling me where you've been for the last fifteen years?"

Her bold question caught him off guard. Bruce retreated even further into artifice and she began to suspect he was a very accomplished liar. "Nowhere special," he smiled, winking at her. "Boarding schools in Europe, mostly. I'm fairly certain you'd find tales of my misspent youth a little dull. Now," he said, rubbing his hands together, "I think I promised you lunch. And I intend to deliver, Ms. Kyle."

They halted before a hot dog vendor and Bruce ordered Polish sausages, slathering them with relish, ketchup and mustard, the meat steaming in the cold winter air. They ate standing up, Bruce with gusto like a small boy, Selina more reluctantly as she chewed on her hot dog and wondered at the mysteries he presented.

"Bruce," she said softly, making him look up at her. She fought a smile as she noticed mustard staining the side of his mouth. As she carefully wiped it away with a napkin, she told him "please call me Selina."

Bruce nodded, catching her wrist. They stood like that for a while, carefully regarding each other. Again, she was the first to break contact, making a show of checking her watch and explaining that she had another business meeting to attend.

"I'll call you," he promised, sounding as if he meant it. Selina nodded, thanking him for lunch and then walking back to where her limousine would pick her up. Again, she had to will herself not to look back at him.

OOOOOOOOOOO


End file.
